


Neko

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: Utsutsu No Yume [3]
Category: Tokyo Mew Mew
Genre: Alien/Mew Relationships, Childhood Lovers to Adult Friends, Dreams and Nightmares, Dreams vs. Reality, F/M, Former Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Passage of time, happy reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-08 14:49:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17388398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: “Seriously?” she sighs, shaking her head, lips still passing quiet giggles as she looks back at his now-bewildered expression. “I finally offer myself to you on a silver platter, andnowyou hold back?”





	Neko

**Author's Note:**

> Neko: Japanese for "cat"
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing related to Tokyo Mew Mew; I'm just playing in this nostalgic sandbox.

Her phone rings on a warm afternoon, as she’s bidding farewell to the day’s last customers: a pair of high school sweethearts wrapped in each other’s arms and content to merrily chat the hours away. She watches them leave with a smile on her face. They look so very happy. So in love. She wonders if theirs will last, or if it is meant to quietly fade over the years, and they will ultimately give their respective hearts to someone else.

She answers the phone without checking the caller ID. There are very few people who ever call her these days. The rest make a point to physically check on her, to varying degrees of invasiveness. “Hello?”

“ _Ichigo_ ,” the sound of Masaya’s voice is relaxing, soothing; it no longer prompts an entire flock of butterflies with wings fluttering wildly in her belly, but is still a kind voice which sets her at ease, “ _what’s wrong?_ ”

He is perceptive as always; a blessing and a curse in their relationship. “Nothing.” She lets the lie come, easily as drawing the breath upon which it left, and waits for the inevitable.

“ _Did you have the dream again?_ ”

She has it every night, even when she’s awake. “No.”

“ _You sound tired._ ” His voice lowers; she wonders if Bella is around. She must be, if Masaya is quieting the conversation, or maybe even moving to a different room before continuing it. Bella is such a sweet girl; always concerned, always at attention if there is someone in need of comfort. “ _Are you not sleeping again?_ ”

She sleeps very little, these days, all days. “I’m fine, Masaya. I promise.”

She’s not fine. She hasn’t been fine for seven years.

***

The dreams started less than a year after. It could have been as little as six months; it could have been as long as ten or eleven months. Ichigo quickly lost the ability to keep track of time then, and she isn’t bothered to keep track of it now.

At first, she only saw shapes, images, flickering across her unconscious eye like a broken film reel. She’d wake up feeling sad, a dull ache at her temple, and she might need an extra minute to pull herself together before starting the day with a smile, but it had been fine. Manageable. If anyone noticed her quieter moments, usually when there were no distractions around to keep her mind occupied, they said nothing.

Then, indiscernible shapes and images became clearer. The details sharpened; blinded her with violent clarity. She saw faces. She looked into eyes and they looked back without recognition. It took three weeks for her to realize she was not a participant in her own dreams. She was an onlooker, a silent audience. These dreams already had an Ichigo to play her part.

So, she watched. She watched herself be a foolish child, not in her optimism or determination, but in her blind devotion to a love she was much too young to claim as her own. She watched herself run, fight, and cruelly reject another love, one she was equally too young and too narrow-minded to appreciate. One was a pretty diamond, polished and shiny, perfect in every way. The other was half-buried in dirt, muddied and discolored by confusion and conflict, and she didn’t have the better sense to take a second look and see something that had been there all along.

Ichigo saw it only once; saw it in blinding clarity…when it was too late to do anything about it. And _that_ is the dream which ultimately elected to be the one recurring. Night after night after night after night…until she couldn’t take it anymore.

The comfort of family was kind, but without understanding or the brand of sympathy rooted in full awareness, and _that_ was what she needed. _That_ , she found amongst the girls, amongst her dearest friends and confidants, and with Masaya. Even when the sweet, sugar-coated days of young love faded and gently recrafted into the familiar warmth of a good friend, Masaya was there, always, with his smile and kind heart. It helped, but never was it the cure she needed.

Dreams only served to remind her, without mercy, the cure would never be hers. And so she cured herself in the only way she knew: she stopped dreaming.

Consequently, to cease dreams is to cease with sleep. She enrolled in higher education, joined Retasu at the university, and threw herself into the rigors of a full course-load. She bought an apartment, to occupy herself with the responsibilities of keeping after herself, making rent payments on time, buying groceries and cleaning and doing laundry. Still, it wasn’t enough. 

She wondered about trying again, putting old ghosts to bed with a new romance. Masaya was helpful, mostly in directing her away from men wanting for pure intentions, all with the protective guidance of a big brother. When he met Bella—sweet, kind-hearted Bella from England, pursuing an environmental degree to match Masaya’s—there was someone else offering suggestions. Bella even set Ichigo up on a couple dates. Good guys, decent men, some with interests to align with her own; all them were gentlemen. In another life, one of them might have been _the one_.

But they weren’t. Reality is a cold and unfriendly enemy when she’s already tasted a fantasy, when it’s buried under her skin, and when it won’t let her go.

She returned to the café, to a place which bred memories and familiarity. She took it under her wing, adopted it while Ryou and Keiichirô went on sabbatical to America. Retasu and Pudding joined her shortly after beginning this crazy venture, once more supportive even in the face of overwhelming odds.

After six months of floundering and barely keeping their heads above water, a random conversation with Mr. Mizushima, professor of marine biology at the university, changed the game. The menu was expanded. The outfits were changed; updated to something more presentable for girls no longer in the pre-teen years. The business boomed.

It was not only the business. Mr. Mizushima is a good man. A kind man. A man they can trust with secrets otherwise confined to their own hearts. He is mentor, teacher, confidant, and Ichigo now feels comfortable considering him a second father. A father from whom she is required to hide nothing.

School. Work. Home. Her world exists in three spheres, all of which overlap, all of which intersect at one point or another. The spare moments she does have come about late at night, and they are spent running through the park, through empty streets, visiting places that are familiar to her for no other reason than to revisit the memories lingering there, loitering like spirits discontent to move on. She fights sleep as long as she possibly can.

But everyone needs to sleep. She is no different. And when she does sleep, the dreams come, and all the effort she puts into fighting them off proves futile.

***

“ _Ichigo,_ ” Masaya says in her ear, as she leans against a wall of the empty café, “ _you know we wouldn’t lie to you, yes?_ ”

“Of course.” That isn’t a lie. Ichigo knows they—Masaya, her friends—would never lie to her. She knows they speak only the truth, and nothing less.

“ _Then you believe us, when we say—when we promise—he is alive._ ”

“I believe you.” But belief amounts to nothing until the proof is under her fingertips, against her skin, standing before her eyes. She believes them, all of them, and she knows they tell no lies on this matter, or any matter. But it is an empty consolation, because a tormented mind needs indisputable proof, tangible evidence held tight in a wanting grasp.

Masaya says nothing, for a minute or two. She wonders if he knows her thoughts. She thinks, more than likely, he does. “ _Be safe, Ichigo._ ” He finally murmurs. They don’t say “goodbye” anymore. She isn’t sure when this started, but even why. She thinks, perhaps, it started when Masaya noticed the way her throat would lock around the word, and she would look faintly sick and ready to cry.

He always noticed those things.

“You too.”

***

Sometimes, before her evening run, Ichigo stops by Pudding’s house. She likes to visit with the little ones (alright, fine; they’re not that little anymore, but they’ll always be the gaggle of five little rugrats in her eyes) and see how high school is treating Pudding. Heicha seems to sense her coming from a mile away, because she never gets halfway up the steps before her arms are full of a giggling child with little braids swinging across her cheeks and arms winding tight around her neck.

She hugs the little girl back, tightly. Her innocence is so sweet, so refreshing. She listens to the sound of Heicha’s laughter and catalogues it away in her memory. She greets the brothers, one by one, with a smile and embrace. Then, finally, she sees Pudding. The blonde always teases her about coming by when they see each other every day at work, while wrapping Ichigo in a tight hug and inviting her to stay for dinner.

Tonight, she politely refuses the invitation. She’s not very hungry. She’s not exceptionally hungry on most nights.

The park is dark, and empty. The lamps are brightly lit, illuminating her path. Tonight, the air is warm, but it wouldn’t matter even if it was cold. She’s run in the bitter chill of winter before, with more skin bared than is seasonably appropriate. It never stops her. She doesn’t let it stop her.

She runs. She sheds human flesh, rips free of human confines, and she _runs_. The wildcat is freed, and it sprints through the night. The earth belongs to her. The forest submits to her will. If she wants to climb a tree and leap bounds from branch to branch, the tree permits her, supports her, welcomes her. This is her time. This becomes her world.

She runs for an hour; maybe a little more. Then she tosses herself from the trees, settles on cold concrete with barely a sound, and draws breath. Her limbs ache, a little, but the adrenaline pumping through her veins is enough to dull the discomfort. Besides, a little pain is welcomed. Pain reminds her of life, of being, of existing even if not thriving.

The park is still dark, and it’s still empty. It’s always empty.

“Ichigo.”

She’s seen moments like these in the movies; read about them in books. Those moments when the world stills, just for a moment, and then suddenly it erupts once more in a great symphony, and the sky suddenly erupts in glorious light and birds sing and…

…and nothing. The sky is just as dark, and there are no birds singing pretty little tunes around her, and there certainly are no rapturous melodies suddenly filling the air. But her name, and that voice, still rings in her ears and it’s almost enough to complete the vision. Not because someone is with her, in the park, in the middle of the night. Not because someone said her name. It’s because she knows that voice, and it’s the one that said her name when it hasn’t in years.

He’s there, half silhouetted in shadow and half illuminated, when Ichigo slowly turns in place. She doesn’t stand, and she barely dares breathe. She just looks. Stares, actually. Stares and silently begs him to come closer, to come nearer… _Let me see you. Let me know it’s **you**._

He does. Ichigo wonders if he can read her thoughts, or if he’s just reading the desperation written in blazing letters across her face.

He’s taller now. What previously classified as just scrawny in physical form is now toned with lean muscles, defined clearly beneath flesh. She thinks his hair might be longer, but it’s tied back and she can’t be quite sure. He looks older. The roguish charm has given way to something else; something more mature, weighed with responsibility.

He also looks hesitant. Maybe even afraid.

Slowly, she finds the strength to stand and forces her legs to more forward; match his movements and close the distance between them. His expression doesn’t change, but he seems to find some encouragement in her advancement and does the same. Only when there is barely a foot of space between them, do they both stop.

“Kisshu,” she whispers, letting his name fall off her lips. Her fingers tremble, quivering, in junction with a solitary thought beating relentlessly from the back of her skull: _I need to touch him._

When she does, it’s without warning or received permission, but her fingertips brush his cheek and he releases a shuddering breath like a dead man revived by meager contact. He doesn’t return the touch, doesn’t even respond to it, and she wonders if he’s afraid to touch her.

“It’s you.” She continues. “It’s…it’s really you. Isn’t it?”

A frown creases his expression, and finally he touches her, ghosting fingers across her brow, then down one cheek. “Ichigo,” she quakes at the sound of her name, from him, again, “what is it? You’re crying.”

_Am I?_ Is she? His fingers are slick against her skin, and her eyes are burning…yes, she must be. When was the last time she cried? Can she even remember?

“Ichigo?” he takes another step forward, closing the distance even more. If she was trembling and shivering before, it’s now escalated to uncontrollable quivering. Is she cold? Maybe, but she’d be a liar to say that’s the only reason her body shakes so violently now. He’s so close; he’s right here, with her, in this place, and…

She’s only aware of how close she steps to him when her fingers are curled tight within his shirt and the erratic tempo of his heart beats against her knuckles. The look on his face changes and she thinks, without a single word, she may have said far more than she realized, or even intended. And when both hands slide forward and cup her face in their palms, she knows what’s coming. This gesture, albeit a much gentler and less demanding version of her memories, is something she has yet to forget.

But…he hesitates. His hands never leave her face, and he puts no more space between them, but he hesitates. The inviting spell of proximity and her blatant compliance is broken, and now they’re both hanging in awkward suspension. He’s examining her face, staring deeply into her eyes, and she knows he’s waiting for the fear, for the rejection, for the response of the foolish girl he once knew and loved anyway.

She’s not a little girl anymore.

“Kiss me.” she whispers, and he starts, eyes widening, heart skipping its natural rhythm. Her fingers fist tighter, curl deeper within the fabric of his shirt. It feels rough, like starched cotton. She wonders if it always felt this way. Surely it must have, and she never noticed. “Kisshu, _kiss me_.”

_Make this real._

“Ichigo, I…” he doesn’t finish; just lets the words fall and drop like stones. She drops her eyes, just for a moment, and then the laughter is breaking past her lips before she can stop it.

“Seriously?” she sighs, shaking her head, lips still passing quiet giggles as she looks back at his now-bewildered expression. “I finally offer myself to you on a silver platter, and _now_ you hold back?”

He hesitates barely a second more, but her words must have struck a chord, because then he apparently casts all fear to the wind and elects to stop caring. He kisses her, and she remembers that ignorant, blinded girl fleeing, casting furious words and frantic gestures to put space between them. She doesn’t fight this kiss. She melts into it. She _loses herself_ in it.

Who, exactly, is accountable for which embrace is a mystery to her. All she registers is hands gliding urgently through her hair, fingers tangling deep within the strands, and she must have been the one to finally close the distance, because her chest meets his first, and her arms are the ones winding tight around him, hands blindly seeking every inch of him. With every inch of skin she finds, each shift of muscles beneath her fingertips, every broken sigh lost into their kiss, the relief trickles forth, pouring faster and faster, until she feels it flood every last bit of her senses. He’s here. He’s real. He’s alive.

Ichigo is only moderately surprised to feel the tree pressing against her back. Ultimately, it registers as a background sensation, when her front is molded against his and she’s completely encased within his arms. She wonders if it, this strange and inexplicable thing living and breathing between them, was always leading to this. She thinks it was. Could it have come about without any of the heartache, misery, and turbulence? Perhaps…but she thinks, maybe, everything that happened between them lent themselves to this point, to this moment.

She thinks it might make everything worth it. Even her blatant stupidity.

Someone—she’s fairly certain it’s him—finally breaks free for that annoyingly necessary sustenance called _air_ , and the world starts moving again. Reality settles between them, more or less, and she appreciates how flushed her face is feeling. Not only because she feels the burning heat on both cheeks, but because he’s smirking—God has she missed that look!—and playing fingers across one side of her face.

“You’re blushing, pretty kitty.”

“So are you.” She returns, with a coy smile on her lips. Their banter feels so different without threats and the weight of the world weighing on her shoulders. It feels natural. Familiar. Like slipping into an old sweater and bundling up within its’ soft folds.

**Author's Note:**

> Please note, this series is a mix of elements (plot developments, events, etc.) from both the anime and manga series. Ichigo's unawareness of Kisshu's revival stems from the anime, not the manga. 
> 
> Just to clarify any possible confusion. :)


End file.
